


say a prayer for the broken bones

by firefall



Series: Say A Prayer 'Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Ambiguous Relationships, Best Friends, Blood and Injury, Boarding Houses, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Families of Choice, Fighter AU, Gen, Great Depression, Known And Hated Unfortunately, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Racism, Poverty, Running Away, Stiles says "it's a horrible life buddy" at some point and that's all you need to know, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-25 08:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14973215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefall/pseuds/firefall
Summary: Up in their room, Malia draws the pain from Scott’s healing ribs, blackness licking up her veins.  Once he’s comfortable, drinking carefully from a cup of water, Malia asks quietly, her voice cracking, “Why do you do this to yourself?”Scott sighs.  “You know why, Mal.  If I win too quickly, they’ll find out I’m a wolf.  I have to at least pretend it’s a fair fight!”But Malia just looks uncharacteristically compassionate.  Stiles’ stomach is churning.  “You know what I think?  I think you’re punishing yourself when you don’t have to.”Scott is a fighter, Malia is (almost) a nurse, and Stiles just wants to protect his family.  1930's AU.





	say a prayer for the broken bones

**Author's Note:**

> So, I did lots of research and tried to keep this as accurate to the 1930's as I could (I even looked up which swear words were most commonly used lol), but hey it's probably not perfect. Tried my darndest.
> 
> Warnings: alcohol use, descriptions of blood and injury, one mention of period-typical racism/xenophobia, discussion of past deaths, some swearing, and Stiles calling people "honey" to annoy them.
> 
> Title is from "Carry On" by 5 Seconds of Summer.
> 
> Many thanks to my love, Heather (geewhizmo), for looking this over for me and legit making me cry with her encouraging words. You're a great Writing Ally :)
> 
> I don't own Teen Wolf. All characters belong to Jeff Davis and MTV and loads of other people that don't deserve Scott McCall.

Scott lets the fight go on too long.

On the sidelines, Stiles has bitten his nails down until they’re bloody, flinching every time his best friend stumbles backward to escape the barrage of cruel fists.  The other guy – Stiles thinks his name is Daehler – isn’t even a good fighter, throwing punches wildly like sheer anger will be enough to win him the prize money, but Scott lets the guy get his licks in anyway.  It’s maddening.

When Daehler manages to get Scott up against the wall, pinning him with a skinny forearm across his chest, Stiles has had enough.  “Finish him off!” he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth.  “C’mon, Scott!”

Scott honest-to-God smirks, showing off bloodstained teeth.  Then, in a theatrical display of faux exhaustion, he gathers his breath and his strength and slams a fist into Daehler’s jaw. 

Daehler, horrid fighter that he is, drops to the ground in a panting heap and doesn’t get up again. 

The roar of the rowdy crowd is almost deafening and Stiles has to strain to hear the moderator shout, “McCall, 23-0!”  Not that it matters – Stiles knows Scott’s stats.  Scott never loses.

He never escapes unscathed, though – mostly because he’s a stubborn ass – so Stiles rushes to his side as soon as the floor is clear and tucks himself beneath Scott’s arm to hold him up.  “We’re getting your money and we’re getting out of here,” he says firmly.  Then, because he just can’t help it, “You _bastard_.”

“He went down pretty fast, didn’t he?” Scott says, a hint of pride in his voice.  It would’ve been much more effective if the words weren’t sloshing around in a mouthful of blood.

“He could’ve gone down _faster_ ,” Stiles points out, but he leaves it at that.  There’ll be plenty of time for that later.  They need to get their share of the money before Harris walks off with it.

Luckily, Scott’s weaselly promoter is planted firmly on a barstool and three sheets to the wind.  “I didn’t think you were gonna pull that one out, kid,” he slurs and Stiles rolls his eyes.  Like _Daehler_ would be the one to take down the reigning champion.  Honestly.  “But you did n’ we got _this_ to show for it.” 

The pile of cash Harris shoves across the counter is _huge_ and Stiles’ stomach hurts just looking at it.  He tries not to imagine what they could do with it, what better lives they could have, because—

“Ten percent,” Harris reminds them, wagging a clumsy, drunk finger.  “Y’know how this goes, boys.”

“Yes, sir…thank you, sir,” Scott mumbles, stepping away from Stiles just long enough to count it out and take what belongs to him.  He stumbles on his feet, a bit woozy from so many blows to the head, and Stiles grabs him around the waist to steady him.  Damned obstinate boy.

On their way out, Stiles slides an extra dollar from the pile and tucks it into his pocket.  Neither Scott nor Harris notices.

The walk back to the Martins’ boarding house is almost five miles and by the time they stagger into the mansion-lined neighborhood, Scott’s wounds have healed.  The streaks of excess blood are distracting enough to hide the bruises that are fading by the minute, but Scott makes sure to smear the redness around anyway.  He even leaves some to dry on his lips.  They can never be too cautious.

Scott lets his body go heavy and weary as they climb up the front steps, looking for all the world like a boy who fought for his life a mere hour ago.  Stiles grits his teeth and supports Scott’s dead weight.

Lydia Martin is in the parlor doing whatever it is recently-impoverished rich girls do with their time – a lot of reading, Stiles has noticed – and she looks up in disdain when they stumble in through the door.  She raises an eyebrow at their mussed up, bloody appearance and crosses her legs primly at the ankle.  “Mother says she’s going to start charging you extra if you keep getting blood on the carpet,” she warns, her tone scolding.  “You’ve turned the best guestroom into an infirmary!  It’s disgraceful.”

“Yeah okay, honey,” Stiles says, hoping it communicates how much he cares.  That is to say, not at all.  “And you’ve turned your mansion into a shelter for the dregs of society.  What do you think the neighbors say about that?”

“ _Stiles_!” Scott hisses as Lydia’s eyes go big and shimmery with tears.  She doesn’t snap back like Stiles expected her to, just picks up her book and opens to a random page, holding it up in front of her face like she’s hiding.  Stiles feels a twinge of remorse at that, but not enough to apologize.  She’s been nothing but condescending since they moved in almost six months ago.  “Let’s just go upstairs.”

They drop the act once they reach the top floor, pulling apart and rolling the kinks out of their shoulders.  There’s no need to pretend up here.  Up here there’s only Malia.

She’s waiting for them in their room, a bowl of water on the desk.  It’d be much easier to clean Scott up in the bathroom, but with fourteen other people in the house, there’s too much risk of being caught.  So they do what they always do – turn the best guestroom into an infirmary.

“He did it again,” Stiles complains as Scott sinks into the desk chair and lets Malia start in on his face with a wet towel.  “He waited way too long!  His _teeth_ were bleeding by the end of it.”

Malia makes a _tsk_ -ing sound through her teeth and rings the towel out into the bowl.  The water is pink.  “It better have been worth it,” she says disapprovingly, glaring down at Scott like she wants to slap him.  It’s as close to _I love you_ as Malia gets.  “If I find out that—”

“It was _Daehler_ ,” Stiles interrupts.  “Even a human could knock him out in seconds.”

“ _Scott_ ,” Malia exclaims in exasperation, wiping away the last of the blood more vigorously than necessary.  “Can you develop a sense of self-preservation, please?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Scott jokes, his smile bright and familiar now that the sickly redness has been washed away.  Then he leans forward to bury his face in Malia’s stomach, hugging her around the waist and mumbling into her shirt, “Wouldn’t need my favorite nurse to patch me up.”

“ _Assistant_ nurse,” Malia corrects him.  She twines her fingers into his hair, fiddling with the dark curls.  “Glorified water-provider, really.  Can’t do much more than that without schooling and I think that opportunity is long gone.”  She looks sad for a fraction of a second and Stiles aches, but her expression soon melts into anger.  “I wish I could be a fighter!  I’d whip all those men.”

It makes Stiles laugh.  “You would,” he agrees.  “You’d probably even whip Scott if it came down to it.  Tate, 98-0…McCall, 23-1.”

“Damn right,” Malia says, giving a satisfied nod.  Scott must hear something in her heartbeat or smell something in her chemosignals, because he pulls back to look up at her with a compassionate crease between his eyebrows.  Malia looks quickly away.

“It won’t always be like this,” Scott whispers, pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand.  “Someday people will be able to do whatever they want, women or werewolves or whoever else.  Without hiding.”

Stiles’ eyes drop closed and he swallows hard against the onslaught of emotions Scott’s words cause.  He hears Malia ask, “Do you really think so?” and Stiles knows his own answer to the question: no.  No, he doesn’t think so.

But Scott isn’t like Stiles, never has been, and his voice is steady and sure when he says, “Yes.  I really do.”  Stiles opens his eyes just in time to see Scott break into a smile and go digging around in his pockets.  “But for now—”

He throws his money from the fight onto the desk.

Malia sucks in a shocked breath at the sight.  “Six dollars?” she cries, eyes huge.  “That’ll pay boarding fees for—”  She trails off, scrunching her face up as she tries to do the mental math.  “—a really long time!” she finally decides on.

“Seven dollars,” Stiles corrects her, adding his spoils to the pile.  “Courtesy of that drunken son of a bitch.”

Scott looks like he wants to be disappointed in Stiles – which is ridiculous considering the way Harris rips them off week after week – but the prospect of being able to pay rent and have money left over is too much to resist.  Scott grins at him.  “You’re crazy,” he says.  “You’re gonna get your ass beat one of these days.”

“Good thing I have my guard dogs, then,” Stiles shoots back and he doesn’t even protest when Malia knocks him back onto the bed.

He had it coming.

_-_-_-_

 

Stiles used to wish he was a wolf.  As a kid, he couldn’t imagine anything more amazing than supernatural strength, healing abilities, and enhanced senses – all things most people didn’t even know existed.  But they _did_ exist and every time Stiles spent the day at the McCall’s house, he’d drag Scott into one of the closets and beg to see his eyes glow gold.  Scott’s mother would scold them something fierce, letting alpha red bleed into her eyes until Scott shied away in submission.

“It’s not a toy,” she’d say, deadly serious.  “It isn’t something to play with!  You have no idea what kind of danger you could put yourself in.”

She was right, it turned out, and when law enforcement came to round up the wolves in the area, Melissa McCall ended up clamped in silver-inlaid irons alongside the rest of them.  Her husband, badge pinned proudly to his shirt, looked straight through her as she pled with him.  But even _his_ treachery had limits – he left Scott trembling and screaming in the front yard without saying a word.  He couldn’t lock up his only son.

Scott woke up a week later with eyes alpha red and he cried so hard Stiles was afraid he’d choke.  Stiles didn’t want to be a wolf anymore.

Stiles is long past seeing supernatural abilities as anything other than a liability, but now, squinting in the dark basement of an old condemned warehouse, he wishes he had Scott and Malia’s night vision.  The only light is from the tiny, broken window he crawled in through and with the sun setting in the sky, it’s barely enough to see five inches in front of him.  He keeps bumping into crumbling support beams.

“What’s taking so long, Gajos?” Brunski shouts from outside.  “Scared of the dark?”

“We have, like, _four_ flashlights,” Stiles says, tired and irritated.  “You could pass one down.”

“And have you lose it like you lost your shoe in that well?  I don’t think so.”  Stiles can hear the grin in Brunski’s voice and not for the first time he wishes he could punch the guy in the face.  It’d taken _weeks_ to be able to afford a new pair of shoes.  “All you need to do is assess the damage to the foundation and you can climb back out.  Make it quick.”

Stiles doesn’t end up having to assess anything, because one of the support beams creaks under the weight of the building and practically explodes as it finally gives up the ghost.  Broken bricks and splintered wood start to fall from overhead.  “Dammit,” Stiles mutters, heart crawling up into his throat.  “ _Dammit_.”

Then he’s racing for the window, the sound of the warehouse collapsing around him echoing in his ears.  He’s going to be absolutely _flattened_.  Too terrified to slow down, he practically throws himself through the tiny window, ignoring the jagged glass that cuts into his skin.  As he rolls across the grass to safety, the entire building goes down with a heart-pounding crash.

It’s Derek Hale that races over to help him to his feet.  “Are you okay?” he cries hoarsely, worry written into the lines of his face.  “You’re bleeding everywhere!”

“He’s fine,” Brunski answers for him, waving away the question dismissively.  “Aren’t you, Gajos?  Just a scratch?”

Stiles gets painfully to his feet, hissing as the movement pulls at the dripping gashes etched into his arms.  “I think I need stitches,” he wheezes, teeth gritted with a mixture of pain and fury.  Brunski could have killed him.

“You could have killed him!” Hale cries, rounding on Brunski angrily.  “I don’t know what your problem is with him, but—”

He stops when Brunski takes a step forward with his eyebrows raised as if daring Hale to complete the threat.  Hale doesn’t, letting an indifferent mask fall over his face and visibly shrinking away.  He’s not going to defend Stiles anymore.  At least not today.

If it were anyone else, Stiles might resent that, but he gets it.  Hale has secrets and laying low is the only way to keep them.

Hale broke his arm Stiles’ first day with the Civil Works Administration.  Everyone had heard the crack of bone and Hale’s yelp of pain as he’d fallen from the roof of some grocery store they were shingling and landed on the cement below.  He’d brushed off all offers of help and hospitals, promising he’d be fine to keep working.  Within an hour he was good as new.  The other men assumed they’d heard wrong – there’s no _way_ he could have cracked his arm and still be hauling bags of roofing – but Stiles knew the truth.

Hale must have been able to smell it on him, because he’d dragged Stiles around back of the grocery store and slammed him up against the bricks ruthlessly.  “If you tell anyone, I will tear you apart,” he threatened, letting his eyes go bright blue and dangerous.  Which was a terrible, reckless decision, really, and would have been his downfall if Stiles was anyone but Stiles.

But, lucky for Hale, Stiles _was_ Stiles and he just hissed, “I wouldn’t try that if I were you, _beta_.”  He’d pushed Hale back by the chest.  “My best friend’s an alpha and he _never_ loses.”

His heartbeat was steady and Hale had stepped down in shock, quickly becoming the only guy in the CWA to give a shit about Stiles’ wellbeing.  Which is why he ends up stitching up Stiles’ arms after Brunski and the rest of the men have gone home.

“Shoulda joined the CCC, kid,” he says, graciously ignoring Stiles’ pathetic whimpers of pain as the needle goes in and out of his skin.  “I hear they just plant trees and stuff.”

Stiles snorts a laugh.  “The CWA pays more,” he says, gritting his teeth as Hale ties the thread off.  “I’ve got a family to provide for.”

“The wolf and the coyote.”  At Stiles’ look of surprise, Hale just shrugs.  “I can smell her on you.  She smells different.”  

“Oh.”  Stiles’ face goes a little warm, but he’s not embarrassed.  It’s just nice, in a way, to know he takes Scott and Malia with him everywhere he goes.  The world is a huge, uncertain place that has more hunger and fear and death than it does love and care, but at least he’s not alone.  Not as alone as he could be.

Stiles wipes the blood from his arms with his handkerchief as he makes his way to the underground fighting ring beneath Finstock’s bar.  He expects to hear the roar of the crowd, but it’s strangely muted as he approaches. 

“Your friend’s out back,” Finstock tells him as Stiles steps inside.  He’s sweeping the floor.  “Boy took a damn licking, let me tell you!”  He sounds gleeful about it.

Heart in his throat, Stiles rushes through the back door to find Scott sitting forlornly on the steps.  His chin is resting on his knees and his clothes are torn.  “Scott?” Stiles asks uncertainly, feeling strangely like he’s intruding.  “Are you okay?  Did you lose?”

The answer is quiet.  “No.”

Stiles squats down beside his best friend and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “Why the long face, then?”

“Harris kept my money.”

Stiles sucks in a breath.  “Bastard,” he mutters, shaking his head in frustration.  “Why didn’t you stop him?” he cries, voice louder than he means it to be.  “You just let him walk away with it?”

When Scott turns to look at Stiles, his eyes are flashing with anger.  “Why weren’t you there to help?” he says, tone accusatory.  “You know I’m always—I’m _supposed to be_ —weak after a fight!  The money part is your job!  Why’d you leave me alone?”

“Why do you just let yourself get walked on all the time?  You could take him down easily, Scott!”

“Yeah, because that worked so well for my mother, didn’t it?” Scott spits and suddenly his eyes are wet.  He growls under his breath and turns away quickly.

The fight drains out of Stiles in an instant and he wraps his arms around Scott, burying his face in his shoulder.  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs over and over again until Scott stops shaking.  “I’m sorry, I love you.  Scott, I love you.”

Scott sniffs hard, then freezes.  “You’re hurt,” he whispers, leaning his head over until it rests against Stiles’.  He sounds exhausted.  “You smell like blood.”

“Happened at work,” Stiles says, but doesn’t volunteer more information.  He’s managed to keep Brunski’s sick obsession with putting him at peril a secret so far.  The last thing Scott and Malia need is another thing to worry about.  “It’s why I was late.  I’m okay, though.  Got sewed up.”

“What a horrible day,” Scott says matter-of-factly and Stiles can’t help but laugh. 

“It’s a horrible life, buddy.”

Stiles holds Scott until the moon is high in the sky and then they head back to the Martins’.

_-_-_-_

 

They met Malia by accident, really. 

After Melissa was taken, Stiles and Scott had stuck around their tiny town just long enough for Scott’s eyes to glow red – once they had confirmation of her passing, there was nothing keeping them there.  There were rumors of cities the Depression hadn’t managed to touch, cities with jobs and food and shelter, so they ran and didn’t look back.

Malia had been running, too.  As terror of the supernatural swept the nation, Malia’s own father had turned her in to the authorities.  She was one of the lucky ones, though.  She got away.  And, just when Stiles and Scott had run out of food and were days away from giving up, she hopped a train right in front of them. 

“Follow me,” she’d shouted, hanging out the door with her arm outstretched.  “Grab my hand!”

They’d obeyed and rode the train all the way to California where they found that the rumors were categorically untrue.  It turned out, people were hungry everywhere.  Their best bet was to stick together.

They stuck like glue and now Malia’s pressed up against Stiles’ side, screeching in anger as Whittemore gets one, two, _three_ punches in before Scott even tries to block him.  “Come _on_ , Scott!” she’s shouting, so furious she’s shaking.  Stiles eyes her warily, ready to sweep her away from the crowd if the claws decide to come out.  Her control isn’t as good as Scott’s.  “That rich boy’s never worked a day in his life…give it to him!”

It’d be hilarious if Scott weren’t getting utterly pummeled.  As Stiles and Malia watch, sprays of Scott’s blood splatter the worn wooden floor like some kind of sick painting.  It isn’t until Whittemore punches him in the gut hard enough to crack his ribs that Scott swings at him, tamping down on his strength so it takes four good hits to send Whittemore crashing to the ground.  He could’ve done it in one. 

“McCall, 25-0!”

Stiles catches Harris trying to sneak out the back.  “Some damn promoter you are,” he says, nostrils flaring with anger.  “He hurts himself night after night making you money and this is the thanks he gets?  You’d steal the clothes off his back if it wouldn’t get you killed, wouldn’t you?”

“Please,” Harris sneers, rolling his eyes.  “That boy’s too much of a pansy to do anything about it.  He’d _give_ me his clothes and say, ‘Anything else, sir?’”

If Stiles had fangs they would’ve dropped.  “Don’t talk about him like that,” he says, voice going low and dangerous.  “You’ll find I’m not nearly as restrained as Scott.”  The set of Harris’ mouth wavers for just a second and Stiles jumps on the weakness as fast as he can.  “So you’re gonna give me his money for tonight’s fight _and_ the money from the last one.  Plus a dollar.”

“You’re not getting an extra—”

Stiles takes a step closer.  “I could always take it off you.  No one around here would stop me.”  Then he smirks.  “In fact, they’d probably place bets.  Show you what it’s like to be on the other side of it.”

Harris hesitates for a few more seconds, eyes darting around as he weighs his options, until he finally hands the money over with a sigh.  “You win tonight,” he hisses, keeping his voice quiet.  “But don’t count on it happening again.”

“Yeah okay, honey,” Stiles says, snickering as his thoughts flit to Lydia for a split second.  He’d rather deal with her any day.

Harris scowls and stomps away.

When Stiles finds his friends waiting on the back steps, Malia is scolding Scott within an inch of his life.  “That was _stupid_ , Scott!” she’s whispering, clutching onto his shirtsleeve as she props him up, tucking her body beneath his arm.  “So unnecessary!”

“Can we talk about this later?” Scott groans, blood dripping down his chin.  “When I’m not half dead?”

“Fine,” Malia concedes wearily.  “But just let it be known that I’m _sick_ of cleaning up your blood.”

“No, you’re not,” Stiles says knowingly, coming up to join them.  He takes Scott’s other side.  “He’s your favorite patient.”

“Hush, Stiles.”

This time, Lydia doesn’t say a word as they fall into the parlor and head for the stairs.  Her eyes linger in judgement on Malia’s trousers just a second too long, but that’s the extent of it.  Stiles thinks Lydia’s given them up to the devil, which is fine with him.

Up in their room, Malia draws the pain from Scott’s healing ribs, blackness licking up her veins.  Once he’s comfortable, drinking carefully from a cup of water, Malia asks quietly, her voice cracking, “Why do you do this to yourself?”

Scott sighs.  “You _know_ why, Mal!  If I win too quickly, they’ll find out I’m a wolf.  I have to at least _pretend_ it’s a fair fight!”

But Malia just looks uncharacteristically compassionate.  Stiles’ stomach is churning.  “Yes, Scott, I know that.  But letting some guy get a few hits in is one thing – letting yourself get beat to a bloody pulp twice a week is something else entirely.”  When Scott doesn’t say anything, Malia huffs a breath.  “You know what I think?”

“What do you think, Doc?”  Scott’s goofy grin drops when Malia refuses to laugh.  “Fine.  Okay.  What do you think?”

“I think you’re punishing yourself when you don’t have to.”

The room goes so quiet, Stiles is almost afraid to breathe.  In that moment, Stiles is _so_ happy to have Malia – she’s braver than he could ever be and, even worse, she’s _right_.

Scott’s body is rigid where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.  “For what?” he demands, crossing his arms defensively across his chest.  “Punishing myself for what?”

“For your mother,” Stiles says quietly, finally speaking up.  “For not going with her.”

Malia nods sadly.  “For surviving when she didn’t.  But you didn’t do anything wrong, Scott.  You’re not wrong to be alive – you don’t have to do penance.”  Then she takes a deep, shaky breath through her nose and lets her eyes glow blue, her sins carved into her face for all eternity.  “What about me?  Do I need to be punished?”

“No!” Scott says vehemently, shaking his head wildly.  “Of _course_ not.  They would’ve killed you!”

Stiles slides to the floor and kneels in front of Scott, laying his head on his thigh.  “They would’ve killed you, too,” he points out.

“Maybe.”

Scott reaches down to stroke Stiles’ hair.

_-_-_-_

 

It’s better after that.  Scott sizes up his opponents and times his fights accordingly, never letting them go longer than three minutes.  There’s still blood – there’s _always_ blood – but broken bones are rare and he’s usually able to walk after it’s over. 

The day the moderator shouts, “McCall, 30-0!” Harris raises their share to twelve percent.  It’s the first flicker of hope they’ve had in ages and it’s _good_.

So, of course, it’s then that Malia loses her job at the hospital.

All the assistant nurses are let go on the same day.  The hospital claims it’s because their positions have become _unnecessary_ , but everyone knows it’s because they had to cut costs.  There’s not a single job in all of America that’s safe – 1934 is just as ruthless as her sisters.

“I probably shouldn’t have been getting paid to bring people water cups anyway,” Malia says, forcing a grin that just looks clumsy on her face.  Her lips are trembling.  “But I just wanted—”

 _To be a nurse_ , she doesn’t say.  Stiles hears it all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pushing up on his tiptoes to kiss her on the forehead.  She still smells like antiseptic.  Then, “Can you take my stitches out?”

“Sure thing.  I’ll get the scissors.”

No matter how many times Stiles watches Malia transform from the blunt, spirited coyote he shares a bed with into the gentle, compassionate nurse the hospital hired, he’s still stunned.  Her fingers are cautious around the scissors as she snips through the threads and soft as she tugs the pieces from his skin.  “Sorry,” she murmurs when he has to curl his hand into a fist against the pull.  It’s okay, though – it only hurts a bit and what pain he does have, she siphons from his skin with the press of her fingers.

“When we get rich, we’ll send you to school,” Stiles promises, reaching over to tuck her hair behind her ear.  Her eyes are big and brown and beautiful and they make Stiles’ stomach wobble.  “I mean it.  Even if it takes until we’re sixty.”

“Might be dead then,” Malia jokes, but her smile is hesitantly hopeful.  She gives his hand a squeeze.

After she wipes his arms clean with one of Scott’s towels – Mrs. Martin had let them keep two once it became obvious that the blood was never washing out – there’s a knock at the door.  And seeing that Scott doesn’t knock and the other boarders keep mostly to themselves, it could only be one person.

“Lydia!” Stiles exclaims, batting his eyelashes obnoxiously as he wrenches the door open.  “What a pleasant surprise!”

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest, unimpressed.  The lace around her collar is frayed.  “Playing doctor again?”

“I honestly don’t understand your disdain for the practice, Lydia.  Do you sneer at _your_ doctors as well?  Throw the prescription bottles back in their faces?”

“They aren’t doing it on a fifty-dollar rug,” Lydia says, her voice rising in annoyance.  “There is _blood_ on my good silk sheets!  My father got me those from Paris.”

“And they’re damn comfortable, too,” Stiles says, grinning when Lydia flinches at the expletive.  He can hear the word _uncouth_ echoing in his head.  It’s one of Lydia’s favorites.  “So, what’s your purpose?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your _purpose_ , honey.”  Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Or did you just come up here to brag about foreign imports?”

Lydia huffs an irritated breath, her red hair blowing away from her mouth.  “I came to tell you that Mother has dinner ready.  Scott’s already eating in the kitchen.”

“So it’s one of those days,” Malia says from behind Stiles as they watch Lydia walk away.  “Just as well.  I don’t think I could stand to make small talk with the likes of the Argents anyway.”  She shudders.  “Something about them doesn’t sit right.”

“Allison isn’t so bad,” Stiles points out as they descend the stairs.  Paint is peeling from the handrail.  Some of it flakes off onto Stiles’ palm.

“Maybe not,” Malia allows.  “But we’ll leave them to the Bryants tonight.”

Sure enough, Scott is sitting at the kitchen table with the Hewitts, slurping from a bowl of soup.  Mason and his parents offer them smiles of greeting before going back to their dinners.  Kitchen meals are always quiet, but Stiles likes them.  Better than the stilted conversation of the dining room.

Stiles had made the mistake of asking about the eating arrangements about a week after they’d moved into the boarding house.  “Why do you let them do that to you?” he’d wondered, brow crinkled as he looked at Mason.  “Let them cast you out like that?”

Mason’s eyes had gone hard and angry.  “What do you know about anything?” he’d demanded.  “If you knew, you wouldn’t be asking that question!  Sometimes all we can do is keep our damn mouths shut…not that you’d understand that, would you?”

It’d hit Stiles like a ton of bricks, like a memory of Melissa warning them about danger, about not playing around, and he’d gone silent.  He didn’t talk to Mason again until he found him on the roof a few days later.

“I’m Polish,” he’d admitted, sitting down next to him.  The sun was just starting to set, the tops of the trees painted with orange.  “My last name is Stilinski – that’s actually what ‘Stiles’ is short for.  But I use my mother’s name, because it’s less obvious.”  He’d leaned forward to rest his chin on his knees.  “And I know that’s not the same – at _all_ – but I remember all the awful things people used to say to my father when I was little and—”  His voice broke just for a second.  “—and I guess I’m saying I get why people sometimes don’t speak up.  I’m sorry for what I said before.” 

Mason had nodded, looking over at Stiles for the first time.  “‘Stilinski’ sounds nice,” he’d said decisively and Stiles heard the forgiveness in it. 

“Scott’s mom was from Mexico,” Stiles had added, the mere mention of her making his entire body ache.  He’d managed to keep back the “ _and an alpha_ ” that was on the tip of his tongue, but just barely.  Mason’s eyebrows had gone clear up to his hairline at the revelation.  “He wishes he could tell people, but he can’t.”

“Yeah,” Mason had agreed, nodding sadly.  “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”  Then he’d snorted a laugh.  “Well, we’re just one big scandal, aren’t we?”

“I guess so,” Stiles had said with a grin, though he hadn’t thought it was anywhere near as scandalous as when he’d seen Mason kissing the Bryant boy behind the woodshed.  Not that he’d tell anyone.  Stiles wasn’t a snitch.

Besides, it was nothing compared to werewolves.

Now, Mason speaks up from across the table to offer condolences to Malia.  “I heard about the hospital,” he says quietly.  “It’s horrid.”

  She just sighs heavily.  “I knew it was coming,” she admits.  “But knowing doesn’t put money in your pocket, does it?”

“It sure doesn’t,” Mr. Hewitt says and then they’re quiet again.

It’s their first free night in a while – no fight, no shifts at the hospital, no recovering from one of Brunski’s sadistic stunts – so Stiles and his friends take a walk around the Martins’ neighborhood, gazing up at the giant mansions and guessing what might be inside.

“I bet that one has a bathtub the size of a pond,” Malia offers, jerking her thumb at the blue house on the corner.  “With a fountain and everything.”

“And that one has a garage out back with _two_ automobiles!” Scott tries, nodding at the yellow house next door.  “How about that?”

“Good one, Scotty,” Stiles approves, then stops to stand before the white four-story, the biggest house on the block.  “I’ll bet you anything this one has—”

He never gets to finish, because the evening air is suddenly filled with the sounds of sirens and screaming.  Then, as they watch with mouths agape, a police car speeds past, pulling a wheeled cage behind it.  There’s a family inside, holding each other and crying.  The mother is clutching a tiny baby to her chest.

“Wolves?” Stiles asks, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.  His voice wavers.

“Yeah.”  Scott looks stricken.  “Even the baby.”

Scott and Malia cry themselves to sleep on either side of Stiles, their hands twisted into his pajama shirt.  He stays up all night to keep watch.

_-_-_-_

 

The struts of the bridge are rickety, falling apart in some places, but Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth in concentration and keeps climbing, trying not to think about how far away the ground is.  He can hear Brunski heckling him from below – something about how he’ll catch him if he falls – and he does his best to ignore it.

Get up, make the repairs, get back down without dying.  That’s the only plan.

Or at least…it _was_ the only plan, but that same damn police car pulling the same damn cage appears from around the corner and Stiles is clambering back to the ground in a hurry.

This time it’s a group of kids, the youngest one – Stiles thinks she’s probably three or so – too overwhelmed to keep herself from shifting.  Her eyes are wild and gold and her fangs are dripping with saliva.  The CWA men gasp in horror, nearly tripping over their tools as they scramble to back away, because she looks positively _rabid_.  It makes Stiles want to cry.  He knows she’s just terrified out of her tiny little mind.

When Stiles chances a glance at Hale, he looks like he’s trying not to vomit.  His hands are curled into fists.

“Fuckin’ _animals_ ,” Brunski spits once the police car is safely out of sight.  “I say we burn them all.”

A series of murmured agreements sweeps the construction site and blood starts to drip from Hale’s hands.  Heart racing, Stiles nearly drags Hale to the tree line, spewing nonsense about wanting to show him something.  Then, once they’re finally alone, he takes Hale by the wrists and forces him to open his fists.

His claws are stained red.

“You gotta put ‘em away, buddy,” Stiles says, but it’s quiet.  Gentle.  If watching wolves be carted away in chains makes Stiles feel like his heart’s been ripped from his chest, he can’t even imagine what it must be like for Hale.  For Scott and Malia.  “They’re gonna come check on us in a minute.”

“ _Children_ , Gajos!” Hale chokes out and suddenly his eyes are glittering with tears.  His nostrils flare like he’s trying to hold them back.  “Little kids!  And he just—!”  He breaks off, turning to look back at Brunski for just a second, his face written with murder.

“That piece of shit doesn’t deserve your grief,” Stiles tells him, anger flaring hot in his stomach.  “He doesn’t deserve to affect you.  You’re better than him in every way, so—”  Stiles lets his voice drop to a whisper.  “—so grieve for the kids, yeah?  But don’t give him a second thought.  _That’s_ what he deserves.  To be left talking to the wind.”

Stiles rubs Hale’s back while he throws up into the dirt.

They fix the bridge without another mishap – the ancient struts manage to hold Stiles’ weight for almost thirty minutes, miracle of miracles – and Hale runs to catch up with Stiles as everyone starts walking home.

“I’m sorry he always makes you do that stuff,” Hale says quietly.  “It’s not fair.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose.  “He can claim it’s because I’m young and small as much as he wants, but I know it’s because he hates me.”  He shrugs.  “Haven’t died yet, so.”

It makes Hale go silent and thoughtful.  His face is twisted with a mixture of exhaustion and misery when he asks, “Is your alpha safe?  And your coyote?”

Stiles nods gratefully.  “Yeah.  For now.”

Later, as Stiles watches Scott take Whittemore down in a rematch that lasts all of sixty seconds, he can’t shake the bone-deep worry that’s settled beneath his skin.  _For now_.

He wishes he knew how long that was.

_-_-_-_

 

A boarding house full of seventeen people from all corners of America is a breeding ground for strange sights.  In the months Stiles has lived there, he’s been greeted by Kate Argent cleaning an entire armory of weapons in the dining room, Mrs. Martin washing her brassiere in the kitchen sink, and Corey Bryant sitting upside down on the sofa more times than Stiles can count.  It’s a bizarre life and not one everyone’s cut out for.

But somehow finding Scott in the parlor with Lydia Martin, speaking softly to her and sitting so close their knees are touching, is the one thing Stiles can’t wrap his head around.  Scott’s _holding her hand_.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Stiles says, flopping onto the sofa next to them and stretching out so his limbs take up more room than is strictly necessary.  He’s sitting on the edge of Lydia’s dress.  “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to get your hands dirty?”

“No, I—”

“You don’t need to answer him,” Scott cuts her off, throwing Stiles a look like he’s annoyed with him.  Annoyed and disappointed.  It definitely isn’t Stiles’ favorite Scott look.  “He’s just being mean for no reason.”

Stiles is affronted.  “For _no reason_?” he cries, throwing his hands in the air.  “Scott, she _always_ —”

“Oh, shut up,” Scott orders angrily.  Then, before Stiles can get a word in, Scott jumps to his feet, wraps a strong hand around Stiles’ bicep, and drags him from the room.  He shoves him up against the hall closet, pinning Stiles with a forearm across his chest. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Stiles hisses, not even bothering to fight back.  The last thing he needs is more embarrassment.  “Let me go!”

Scott doesn’t let him go.  Instead he leans in so close Stiles can feel his breath on his face and whispers urgently, heatedly, “Her father is leaving, Stiles!”

Stiles’ body goes slack with surprise and he stares at his best friend.  “Leaving?” he repeats, glancing at the closed parlor door.  There’s only silence behind it.  “Like, _leaving_ leaving?”

“Like going to Chicago,” Scott says, the corners of his lips turning down with sympathy.  “The bank had to let him go and he hasn’t been able to find a new job.  It’s been _weeks_ , Stiles…the food we’ve been eating is from the soup kitchen downtown!”  He pauses, waiting for that to sink in.  Stiles swallows hard.  “So he’s taking the first train tomorrow, hoping he’ll find something in Chicago.  They have no idea when he’ll be back.  _If_ he’ll be back.”

“That’s awful,” Stiles whispers, remorse wracking his body and making his stomach hurt.  He kind of wants to punch himself in the face.  “Is she okay?”

“She’s been crying all day.”  Scott sighs, finally dropping his hands and letting Stiles go free.  When Stiles doesn’t move away, paralyzed by his guilt, Scott lists forward to bury his face in Stiles’ neck.  He fits perfectly.  “We aren’t the only ones with problems,” he says, the words muffled.  “I think we forget that sometimes.”

“ _You_ don’t,” Stiles points out, running a gentle hand over Scott’s back.  “You’re a better person than I am.”

“Probably,” Scott agrees and Stiles can’t even be mad.  He just laughs into the top of Scott’s head.

Stiles waits until Lydia is all ready for bed, walking from the bathroom to her bedroom in her dressing gown, to make it right.  “I’m sorry about your father, Lydia,” he says quietly, his gaze dropping sheepishly to his stocking feet.  “You don’t need to forgive me or anything – I know I don’t deserve it – but I’m sorry for making things worse when you were hurting.”

At the soft touch of her fingertips against his elbow, he looks up in surprise.  Lydia’s eyes are wet but her mouth is pulled into a tiny, rueful smile.  “And I’m sorry for being snooty,” she offers, swiping a hand across her cheeks to wipe the tears away.  “Gosh, I’d’ve hated me, too.”

“Truce?” Stiles holds his hand out for her to shake.  “Allies from now on?”

“Truce,” Lydia agrees, taking his hand.  Then she adds, a smirk across her lips, “ _honey_ ” and disappears into her bedroom before he can answer back.

Stiles tucks three dollars into her copy of _Pride & Prejudice _and leaves it on the sofa.

_-_-_-_

 

All the boarders come out to bid Mr. Martin farewell as he leaves in a taxi for the train station.  Lydia and her mother are inconsolable, Mrs. Martin crying into Allison’s blouse as Mrs. Hewitt strokes Lydia’s hair over and over to soothe her.  “ _Baby_ ,” she’s whispering so quietly Stiles has to read her lips.  “ _My sweet baby_.”

Then the Bryants leave for San Diego a week later and Stiles finds himself on the roof, an arm draped around Mason’s thin shoulders. 

“Stiles, I—” That’s as far as Mason gets before tears are rolling down his cheeks.  “I just—”

“You love him,” Stiles finishes for him, making sure to keep his voice down like a secret.

Mason flinches, the tears coming harder.  “I do,” he admits, the words heavy and terrifying.  “And I never got to tell him.”

“He knows,” Stiles promises, digging his handkerchief out of his pocket and passing it over.  “The way you looked at him…how could he not?”

Mason keeps the handkerchief and Stiles lets him.

_-_-_-_

 

Stiles was ten when he came home from school to find his mother dead in her bed.  It wasn’t a surprise, really – she’d been sick for a very long time – but he’d still screamed himself hoarse, tugging on her lifeless hand and begging her to wake up.  When Melissa finally managed to break down the bedroom door, ripping it straight off its hinges, Stiles was in a heap on the floor, digging his fingernails into his knees so hard they bled.

It was Melissa that patched Stiles up, Melissa that stroked his hair until he stopped shivering, and Melissa that made up an extra bed on Scott’s floor and told Stiles he never had to go back home.

Stiles’ father wasn’t there anyway.  He’d disappeared in the middle of the night along with all his clothes and every whiskey bottle in the house.  Scott said he must’ve been too sad to stay, but Stiles was sad, too.  He was so sad it _hurt_ , but he didn’t run.

Stiles thinks ten is probably too young to find out you’re stronger than your father.

Moving to California felt like starting over, but when Stiles wakes up on the tenth anniversary of his mother’s death, the sadness is the same.  It’s the first year he won’t take flowers to her grave or leave a note in her favorite birdfeeder out back or listen to some stupid radio program to distract himself, wedged between Scott and Melissa on the sofa.  It hurts more than he thought it would.

Scott has a fight scheduled for that evening, but when he comes back from the bathroom to find Stiles with his face buried in a pillow, he immediately borrows the Martins’ telephone to call it off.  Harris is furious and threatens to dock two whole dollars from Scott’s pay, but Scott doesn’t even hesitate before saying, “You can dock three for all I care!”  He hangs up straight after.  Stiles is so miserable he can’t even feel bad about it.

So, instead of heading to Finstock’s bar as the sun is setting, Stiles and his friends meet at the river on the edge of the city.  Scott leans back against the stone retaining wall, gesturing for Stiles to join him.  Stiles obeys, settling into the V of Scott’s legs and shivering when Scott holds him around the waist.  Malia sits down next to them.

It’s Malia that speaks up first, never one for silence.  “I wish I coulda met your mother,” she says wistfully, sadly.  She puts a hand on Stiles’ knee.  “What was she like?”

Normally Stiles doesn’t like to talk about it, but he’s in a new state with a new life and Malia’s managed to crawl into his heart like no one has since Scott, so he answers her.  “She was the best,” he says simply.  “I remember thinking that she was fearless, you know?  Just so brave.  When bad things would happen, she’d always worry about me and my dad first…even when she got sick.  And now I realize she must’ve been terrified out of her mind, but she hid it so well.  She wanted me to have a good childhood even though my mother was dying and my father was dealing with it by drinking himself into oblivion.”  Stiles can feel his throat tightening, but he pushes on.  He’s come this far – he’s not stopping now.  “And she was the best at loving people.  Everyone she met, she’d find a way to make their life better.  Every single one.”

“So, she was like you?” Malia’s voice is soft.

The mere suggestion has Stiles making a sound in the back of his throat that’s half laugh, half sob.  “She was nothing like me,” he says, dropping his head back on Scott’s shoulder because he’s just too weak to hold it up any longer.  “All I do is make people mad.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but somehow it comes out sad and desperate and much too honest.  Stiles’ face burns in the dark.

“You’ve made _my_ life better,” Malia says fiercely and suddenly she’s closer than before, a determined look hardening her features as she crawls into his lap and kisses him for the very first time.

At his surprised intake of breath, she pulls away.  “Okay?” she asks, fingers gentle on his jawline.  “More?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, leaning forward to chase her mouth because he just can’t help it.  She grins at his eagerness, but doesn’t make fun, doing as he asks without hesitation.  At the press of her lips against his, gentle at first and then with more purpose, Stiles trembles helplessly, all the emotion and exhaustion of the day crashing down on him at once.  Just when he feels like he might float away, Scott is there, rubbing his back and whispering soothing words into the back of his neck.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, letting the words linger on the bumps of Stiles’ spine.  “We’ve got you, Stiles…everything’s okay.”

Stiles hums and lets his eyes fall closed.

Later, back at the Martins’, Malia presses Stiles into the bed and climbs on top of him.  “I hear these sheets are from Paris,” he says, grinning up at her impishly.  He puts his hands on her hips.

“You’re an idiot,” is all Malia says before she shuts him up with her mouth.

Idiot or not, she kisses him like he means something and Stiles’ whole body feels fuzzy and warm.  But this time it’s Malia that shakes, pulling back after a while with her eyes bright blue and her face tinged pink.  “Sorry,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head like it can make the coyote lie down, make it melt away from the surface of her skin.  She hides her claws behind her back.  “I, um—”

“I don’t mind,” Stiles says honestly, smudging a thumb across her bottom lip.  He knows she would never hurt him.  “Just kiss me again.”

So she does.  She does and when she’s done, she rolls off of Stiles to kiss Scott, too.  Stiles watches them in the yellowish glow of the streetlamp outside the window and he finds he doesn’t mind it.  It feels right – _good_ , even – and they could use a little right.

Once they’re settled in for the night, side by side in the bed that’s just this side of too small, Stiles recounts every memory of his mother that he can bring to mind.  They’re not new to Scott – he was there for most of them – but he listens intently anyway, pressed so close his unruly hair is tickling Stiles’ ear. 

“I miss her, too,” he whispers and Stiles cries.

Malia and Scott are still holding Stiles’ hands in the morning.

_-_-_-_

 

The day Brunski passes around the Program Termination Notice, the CWA men get drunk. 

“Gonna be out of a job in two weeks anyway,” one of the men slurs forlornly, knocking back half a flask of God knows what before handing it off to his friend.  “What’s the difference?”

The men murmur their despondent agreement, heads hanging and shoulders slumping as they think about their families, and Stiles can’t help but feel sorry for them.  They’re not good people by any means – the deep claw marks in Hale’s hands were proof of that – but that doesn’t mean their children should suffer.  Stiles would never wish pain on a kid.

That’s where he and the men are different.

“What will you do?” Stiles asks Hale where they’re perched on the swings at the old, rundown playground they’re supposed to be repairing.  The rusty chains creak as they gently sway back and forth.  “Once they shut us down?”

“Dunno.”  Hale shrugs.  “There’s always been a part of me that just wants to leave, you know?  And I don’t mean California, I mean humanity.  I could survive just fine out in the woods somewhere by myself…no money, no bills, no responsibilities.  Just me.”

“Just you and the dwindling population of bunny rabbits,” Stiles says, wrinkling his nose.  “Because you’d have to eat them.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Hale says dryly, rolling his eyes.  “Does your family let you get away with dog jokes?”

“Nah, they usually tackle me.”  Stiles’ smile drops.  “That sounds like a lonely life, buddy.”

“Yeah, well…I’m used to being alone.”  Before Stiles can say anything, Hale turns the question back to him.  “And what about you?  What will _you_ do?”

It draws from Stiles a sigh so deep it feels like it comes from the very bottom of his feet.  “We’ve already lost Malia’s income, so with mine gone by the end of the month, that just leaves what Scott makes from fights.  He could add another fight or two per week, but I don’t wanna put him through that.”  Stiles’ eyes blur and he quickly drops his gaze to his lap to conceal it.  He knows Hale can smell the salt of his tears, but he also knows he’s much too tactful to mention it.  Stiles is grateful.  “He starts liking it too much.”

“Winning?”

“No.”  Stiles swipes the back of his hand across his nose.  “Bleeding.”

Hale gives his shoulder a squeeze.

Once he tires of watching the other men drink their sorrows away, Stiles pulls his feet up onto the swing and stands up, white-knuckling the chains as he wobbles precariously.  “Boost me up,” he tells Hale, nodding up at the rusty bar overhead.  “I wanna hang on it.”

Hale blinks at him.  “Are you serious?”

“I haven’t been on a playground in years,” Stiles says simply.  “Boost me up.”

“Better than drinking on the job, I suppose,” Hale says, lacing his fingers together to give Stiles a foothold.  Then he lifts him until Stiles is able to grab the bar.  “There you go.”

A light, almost relieved feeling soaks into Stiles’ bones as he swings himself up to drape his knees over the bar, letting go so he’s hanging upside down.  The world doesn’t look so big like this, distorted and topsy-turvy.  If he stretches his arms as far as they’ll go, his fingers can brush the tops of the tallest weeds.

“You’re a child, Gajos,” Hale says but it’s good-natured.  Stiles thinks that if they were alone, he might’ve been able to convince Hale to join him.

“Stiles,” Stiles tells him, squinting at Hale upside down. 

“What?”

“You should call me Stiles.”

They’re both smiling when Stiles swings back to the ground.

_-_-_-_

 

They watch from their bedroom window as the police drag the neighbor’s gardener from the tool shed.  The man puts up a good fight, claws slashing at his attackers and teeth snapping at the chain they clasp around his neck, but it’s no use.  They jam a needle into his back, injecting something into his bloodstream that makes him roar in agony and fall to his knees.

“It’s wolfsbane,” Scott says, voice tight.  “Enough to kill him.”

“He’s not even gonna make it to jail,” Malia says, blue flickering in and out of her eyes as she tries to keep control.  “They’re despicable.”

It’s getting way too close for comfort – the Martins’ _neighbors_! – but no one points it out.  They all know.  Stiles feels sick.

Once the police car is safely out of sight, Malia races from the room and slams the door behind her. 

Scott, on the other hand, climbs into the bed and burrows down into the blankets like he never wants to come out, which is understandable considering the circumstances.  Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, resting his hand on the crown of Scott’s head and leaving it there.  “I love you,” he whispers because he wants to make sure Scott knows.  No matter what happens, Stiles is always going to be on his side.  _Always_.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott says raggedly and it sounds like _I love you, too_.  Then he begs, “Please, Stiles, you need to find Malia.  She was so angry when she left and—I don’t know what she’ll do.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Stiles promises, leaning down to leave a kiss in Scott’s hair.  “You just rest.”

Stiles doesn’t end up having to go far, because he finds Mason in the library, standing on his tiptoes trying to reach a book on the top shelf.  Stiles grabs it for him and Mason must be able to see the question on his face, because he tells Stiles without prompting, “She locked herself in the bathroom about ten minutes ago.  She seemed pretty upset.”

“Thanks, pal,” Stiles says, giving him a grateful slap on the shoulder.  “You’re the best.”

He knocks lightly on the bathroom door.  “It’s just me, Mal,” he says, so quietly he can barely hear himself.  He knows she’s listening, though.  “I have the key here…is it alright if I come in?”

There’s a sigh on the other side of the door.  “Fine.”

She’s sitting in the bathtub with her knees pulled up to her chest, her clothes strewn around the room like she threw them off in a fit of rage.  Stiles’ stomach clenches when he sees that her face is wet with tears.  Malia isn’t like Stiles and Scott – she rarely cries. 

“Oh, love,” he whispers, falling to his knees next to the tub.  His hands hover awkwardly, unsure of whether he should touch her.  “I’m so sorry.”

Malia’s nostrils flare with anger.  “I hate humans so much!” she spits, turning to look at him with fire in her eyes, like she’s daring him to argue.  “I’m sorry, but I do!”

“I know.”  Stiles lets his hands fall to his lap, feeling helpless.  He knows there’s absolutely no way to fix this, no way to make it better.  Especially when it’s people like him who are doing such horrible things.  “It’s okay.”

“I’m tired of watching my people die.”  Malia sinks down until her chin is in the water.  Then she sniffs hard and mumbles, “Can you wash my hair?”

“Of course.  Pass the shampoo, yeah?”

When Malia speaks up again, Stiles is rinsing the soapy lather from her hair.  Eyes squeezed shut, she says, voice dangerously serious, “I’d kill them if I got the chance.  The police, I mean.  I’d rip their throats out and I wouldn’t even feel bad about it.  My eyes are already blue anyway.”  Once the soap is gone, she looks up at him with big brown eyes.  “Is that bad, Stiles?”

“No,” he says firmly, pulling the plug on the drain and digging a towel out of the closet.  He holds it out to her.  “I’d kill them, too.”

The corner of Malia’s lips turn up.  “It’s not you I’m mad at,” Malia says quietly, wrapped in the towel.  “I know you’re not like them.”

“You can be if you want.  I understand,” Stiles offers, shrugging.  “Let’s go get Scott now.  He needs us.”

That night, Scott knocks out his opponent in forty-five seconds flat.  It’s a new record.

_-_-_-_

 

The Civil Works Administration is officially terminated on March 31st.  As some kind of last hurrah, Brunski makes Stiles get on his belly in the dust and shove his skinny arms beneath some old radiator that keeps malfunctioning.  It’s fine until it starts shooting sparks that burn into Stiles’ skin, making him pull back with a yelp.  There are welts sprinkled across his wrists like burning mosquito bites, stinging something awful.  As Stiles cusses a blue streak, Hale furtively brushes the back of his hand up against Stiles’ arms and pulls the pain from his skin.  It makes Stiles sag gratefully in relief.

When they leave work for the very last time, the men are drunk again, drowning their fears and their sorrows.  It reminds Stiles of his father and he runs ahead of the group so he doesn’t have to watch them.  He shakes Hale’s hand before they part ways, wishing him the best of luck.

“Don’t traumatize too many rabbits out there,” he says, unable to resist making one last joke.  “They’re sensitive.”

Hale doesn’t even dignify it with a response.  “Protect your family, Stiles,” he says and then he’s gone.  Stiles hopes he’ll be okay.

Scott’s opponent that night is a boy named Raeken and he’s definitely the stiffest competition he’s ever faced.  So stiff, in fact, that Stiles turns to Malia in concern and asks, “Is he—?”

Her lips pull into a hard line.  “Coyote,” she whispers and Stiles swallows hard.

“Shit.”

The fight passes the seven-minute mark and Stiles just can’t stand still any longer.  “Dammit,” he mutters, annoyed with himself, and touches Malia’s arm to get her attention.  “I have to piss, okay?  If he pulls it out while I’m gone, make sure he gets his money.  Try to wrangle an extra dollar if you can.”  Stiles hops from foot to foot.  “Harris always—”

“I’ve got it covered, Stiles,” Malia cuts him off with a laugh.  “You worry too much!  Just go.”

“Right, thanks.”

Finstock’s basement only has one bathroom and the door’s shut tight, so Stiles ducks out the back into the alley.  He hears footsteps follow him out, but he doesn’t think anything of it, too focused on the matter at hand.  That is, until a deep voice calls out from behind him, “I’ve been waiting to get you by yourself.”

It’s Brunski and he’s so drunk he’s swaying on his feet.

“The CWA’s over, man,” Stiles says, turning slowly to face his tyrannical supervisor.  “So whatever problem you have with me, you can just forget about it.  You never have to see my ugly face again…isn’t that great?”

“It’s over,” Brunski slurs, making a face like he can’t figure out whether he should sob or kill someone.  “Y’know why it’s over, Gajos?  Because we _cost too much_.  Because it _costs too much_ to keep our families fed and our children off the streets.”  Brunski takes a step closer and Stiles backs away, nerves fluttering in his stomach.  “So they signed our death warrant from their gold-plated desk chairs in Washington.  _Fuck_.”

Stiles’ back collides with the scratchy brick wall of the bar.  “That’s very touching,” he says, taking a scuttling step to the side, desperate to widen the distance between them.  “You should write them a letter.”

“Always got some smart-mouthed answer, don’t you?”  Brunski laughs and it’s practically manic.  He doesn’t let Stiles get away, taking him by the shoulders instead.  He’s so huge Stiles has to crane his neck to look up at him.  “Say, you don’t have any kids, do you?  You’re basically a kid yourself.”  A sloppy smile spreads across Brunski’s face as his drunken mind manages to put together an idea.  “You should give me your money.”

Stiles pushes him back with all his might.  “You’re not getting my damn money,” Stiles says darkly, nose wrinkling at the thought.  “It’s _mine_.  I earned it just like the rest of you.”

Frankly, Stiles thinks he earned it a little bit more than the rest of them, considering the amount of blood he’s shed on the job, but he wisely keeps that part to himself.  Even he has self-control every once in a while.

Not that it matters, because Brunski is furious anyway, lunging forward quick as a flash to wrap a gigantic hand around Stiles’ neck and slam his head back against the wall.  Stiles’ vision goes white for a few terrifying seconds.  “How ‘bout this?” Brunski shouts, the words echoing in the abandoned alley.  Stiles can just barely hear the roar of the crowd beneath the bar through the blood pounding in his ears.  He can’t breathe.  “You give me your money and I don’t kill you!”

Despite his intoxicated state, Brunski is strong – much stronger than Stiles – and Stiles scrambles to pull the roll of bills from his pocket, desperate for air.  They flutter to the ground in a crinkled mess.  It’s almost ten dollars – their final CWA paycheck.  “There,” he wheezes against the hand crushing his trachea.  “It’s yours.”

Still Brunski doesn’t let go.  Tears of anguish streaming down his face, Stiles ineffectively kicks out at the man, vision darkening around the edges.  He’s going to die.

Just when Stiles can feel himself slipping into the darkness, the alley rings with a deafening roar and Brunski goes flying through the air to slam against the back wall of the mercantile.  Stiles slumps to the ground, panting for breath and rubbing at his throat.

“Don’t touch him!” Malia snarls through a mouthful of fangs, her eyes glowing dangerously in the dark.  Brunski whimpers in fear, pathetically crawling away from her on his hands and knees, eyes so wide they look like they might pop out of his head.  His shoulder is bleeding where Malia sunk her claws in, seeping through the cotton of his shirt.  “If you _ever_ lay a finger on him again, I’ll rip your arms off!”

And the thing is, Malia doesn’t do empty threats.  She means every single word she says.

Brunski must believe her, because he manages to pull himself to his feet and stumble away, babbling about demons and hellfire.  Malia growls loudly when he looks over his shoulder.  He yelps in fright and doesn’t look back again.

The emergency bell at the police station starts clanging in the night and it’s only then that they realize just how much trouble they’re in.

“Stiles, we gotta go,” Malia says urgently, squatting down next to where he’s still sucking at the air, full-body coughs wracking his frame.  “Can you stand?  We need to get Scott out of here.”

“I got it,” Stiles rasps, forcing himself to his feet.  Malia snakes an arm around his waist to keep him upright and then they hurry back into the bar, pushing to the front of the audience just in time to see Scott slam a fist into Raeken’s face so hard blood spatters into the crowd.  Finally, after nearly ten minutes, Raeken falls to the ground and raises a shaky hand in surrender.

“McCall, 42-0!”

Stiles and Malia storm the floor.

Scott’s in the worst shape he’s ever been.  His entire chin is coated in blood, dripping down his neck and onto the collar of his shirt, and one of his eyebrows is completely busted open, coating his eyelid in sick red.  When he sees them coming, he takes a step toward them only to waver on his feet and pitch forward.  Malia catches him easily but fear prickles up Stiles’ spine. 

They need to run and Scott can barely walk.

“They’re coming for us,” Malia says, whispers it straight into Scott’s ear, and the glazed-over look leaves his eyes and is instantly replaced by a mixture of anger and sheer terror.  They don’t say a word to Harris as they race pass, leaving him dumbfounded as they stumble through the door into the chill of the night, Malia practically dragging them both along.

“They don’t know where we live.”  Malia’s mostly talking to the air.  Stiles is having trouble focusing, every breath scraping painfully past the aching wound of his throat.  “So if we can just get to the Martins’ without being caught, we should have enough time to gather our things and our money and disappear.  It’ll be fine.”  It sounds like she’s trying to reassure herself without much success.  “They won’t hurt us.”

From next to her, Scott just moans in pain.  He’s already hurting.

They take the backroads, ducking behind dumpsters and parked automobiles whenever Malia’s sensitive ears hear someone coming.  Stiles’ heart is pounding hard in his chest and he has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming when a police car whizzes past their hiding spot, whirling red lights casting dancing shadows in the streets.  Three more follow right behind, the last one pulling a cage. 

Scott growls under his breath. 

They’re only a mile from the Martins’ when Stiles pulls up short, unable to take another step.  “Wait,” he pleads as his friends turn to look at him in confusion.  “Wait, just—let me piss.”

Malia is absolutely _livid_ , eyes flashing blue before she tamps down on it.  “You can’t be serious!”

“I’m _sorry_!  He didn’t let me go!”

“Just hurry up,” Scott says wearily, seizing the opportunity to bend over with his hands propped on his knees, gasping for air.  His surface wounds are mostly healed by now, but Stiles would wager he has multiple broken bones still knitting themselves back together.  Raeken was ruthless.

Blushing hot, Stiles turns his back to them and gets it over with as quickly as possible, mumbling apologies all the while.  Then they set out again, breathing an audible sigh of relief when they find the boarding house undisturbed.

“They won’t hurt us,” Malia says again and they slip inside on silent feet.

_-_-_-_

 

The police find them within minutes, shrieking sirens waking up the sleepy neighborhood.  Stiles watches in apprehension as lights come on in the windows of the neighboring mansions.

“They have dogs,” Scott says, grunting as he throws the gigantic mattress off of its frame so they can get to the money they have hidden underneath.  It’s not as much as it used to be.  “They’re tracking us.”

“They’re _hunting_ us,” Malia says bitterly.  “Like animals.”

Even Stiles’ human ears can hear the front door being kicked off its hinges three stories down.  They’re trapped like fish in a barrel.

But when the bedroom door swings wide, they aren’t met with drawn guns and needles full of wolfsbane like Stiles expected.  Instead, Lydia fills the doorway, face written with murder.  “Follow me,” she hisses, nodding over her shoulder.

They stare at her in shock a split second too long and she darts into the room to grab Stiles by the wrist.  “Allies, right?” she says urgently, cringing as crashing noises fill her home and loud footsteps stomp up the first flight of stairs.  “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

“Allies,” Stiles agrees in wonderment and then they sprint after her.

She unlocks the door at the end of the hallway and drags them inside, hiking her lacy nightgown up around her waist with one hand as she yanks on a string overhead with the other.  A set of rickety wooden steps comes crashing down, much too loud in the night.  Dogs howl beneath their feet and Scott and Malia’s eyes glow in fury, red and blue and dangerous.

Lydia sucks in a breath, but doesn’t shy away, leading them up the steps two at a time until they’re standing in the middle of a dusty attic Stiles hadn’t even realized existed.  Then it’s over to a tiny window, circular and about two feet in diameter.  Tree branches knock against the glass and suddenly Stiles gets it.  He gets it and he’s so grateful he wants to cry.

Scott actually does cry, tears glistening in his eyes as screams ring out from every corner of the house, the boarders being pulled from their beds.  It sounds like the police are absolutely ransacking the house, destroying everything in their path.  “I’m so sorry, Lydia,” Scott says, voice thick with tears and regret.  “We shouldn’t have come back here.  We just wanted to grab our money.”

“It’s not your fault,” Lydia says shakily but firmly.  Then she throws the window open.  “Go,” she orders, gesturing out into the blackness.  “The Argents have all their weapons ready – their bedrooms are like a warzone.  They’re—”  Her voice breaks just for a second.  “They’re not on your side.  Mason was trying to talk them down, but they’re not going to listen to him.”

“We’re never gonna forget you, Lydia,” Stiles promises, quickly pressing a kiss to her forehead.  She clings to his hands.

“Never,” Malia agrees, looking at Lydia with admiration in her eyes for the very first time.  But then they hear an officer shout from down the hall and they’re out the window and into the tree quick as a flash.  The last thing Stiles sees before they jump to the ground is Lydia grabbing a letter opener from the top of an ancient, dusty desk and wielding it out in front of her like a dagger.  She disappears through the hole in the floor like a lacy apparition.

As soon as they hit the ground, they run for the woods behind the Martins’ house. 

It’s not long before there’s crashing in the trees behind them, the forest echoing with gunshots and howls and angry shouts.  Stiles is trembling with a mixture of fear and fatigue, but he races after his friends as well as he can.  They’ve shed their humanity, letting their fangs drop and their eyes glow and their brows go thick and petrifying.  They look every bit the animals their assailants think they are. 

Somehow, it makes Stiles feel safer.

“Keep going!” Scott shouts, words slurred by his fangs, when an arrow whizzes past Stiles’ ear, slamming into a tree and splintering the bark.  Malia snarls in answer.  “We’re not gonna stop!”

And they don’t.  They don’t stop even when the sun starts to rise and Stiles drops to his knees to throw up all over the forest floor, nearly dead with exhaustion.  Scott and Malia just pull him up beneath each armpit and practically carry him along, drawing what pain they can from his sore muscles.

“Just leave me,” he gasps, lungs hitching painfully.  “You can come back when it’s safe.”

“Shut up,” Malia growls, enraged at the thought.  “We’re not doing that.”

“We don’t leave people,” Scott says seriously, sparing a second to nuzzle into Stiles’ cheek, breathing him in like he’ll smell anything other than sweat, vomit, and abject terror.  It seems to calm Scott anyway.  “Especially not you.”

“You may regret that,” Stiles says, feeling his friends’ muscles clenching beneath his dead weight.

“Not likely,” Scott shoots back and they keep running.

_-_-_-_

 

They don’t stop to rest until the sun has gone down again.  There’s no way of knowing where they are or how far they’ve come, but the forest is quiet save for the sounds of chirping crickets and their own panting breaths, which is good enough for Stiles.

He collapses to the ground and shuts his eyes immediately.

It takes mere seconds for sleep to overtake him, a pair of hands rubbing soothingly over his aching shoulders – Malia’s probably – but the snarl that enters his dreams is so loud, Stiles shoots back to his feet, wide awake.

“What do you want?” Scott is screaming, pouncing on a shadowy figure and pinning them to the ground, his fangs inches from their neck.  His eyes are gleaming alpha red.  That combined with the leftover blood from his fight with Raeken makes him a truly horrifying sight.  “Tell me before I tear your throat out!”

Stiles is almost positive he’s bluffing – _almost_ – but the person has no way of knowing that and they scramble backwards in fear, raising their arms in self-defense.  Scott knocks them away with a growl and suddenly there are two blue eyes shining into the night, wide in submission.

Stiles knows those eyes.

“It’s Hale,” he cries, racing to Scott’s side and yanking him away by the arm.  Scott’s chest is heaving.  “Scott—Scotty, that’s _Hale._   He’s good, Scott!  He’s like you!”  

The fight drains from Scott immediately and he flops into the dirt, his head in his hands.  His body shakes with exhaustion.  “I’m sorry,” he says miserably, guilt-ridden eyes flicking up to look at Hale before quickly falling back to his lap.  Stiles aches to touch him, to comfort him, but he forces himself to stay still.  There are times when he needs to keep his human mouth shut.  “We’ve been running all day and I just—they’re coming after us and—”

“I know,” Hale says softly, getting to his feet.  He reaches down to help Scott up, not a hint of malice written into the lines of his body.  “They’re bastards.”  Then he nods in Stiles’ direction.  “Hi, Stiles.”

“Hey, buddy.”

Never one for tact, Malia plants herself firmly next to Stiles, claws sharp where her hands are dangling at her sides.  “Who are you?” she demands, putting as much authority into it as she can.  Somehow she’s even scarier than Scott.

But Hale only grins.  “You’re the coyote,” he says knowingly, but the smile quickly drops and is replaced by a fearful urgency.  “You can’t stay here.  The dogs will track you in hours.”

Malia’s eyes narrow suspiciously.  “Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t want to see even one more of us taken away in chains,” Hale says honestly, tiredly.  Stiles can tell he’s thinking of the kids, of that tiny little girl.  Stiles’ chest hurts.  “And I don’t think you do, either.”

Tears flood Malia’s eyes and she quickly whirls away from them, shoulders shaking.  It’s answer enough.

Stiles gives her a minute to compose herself before circling around to stand carefully before her.  He puts a hand on each of her shoulders and presses a gentle kiss to her mouth.  “He’s good,” he says again, like a promise.  “He’ll help us.”

“You trust him?”

Stiles thinks of collapsing buildings and burning radiators and hanging upside down on the swing set and he nods confidently.  “I really do.”

It’s good enough for Scott who’s too wiped out to pretend he wasn’t listening from across the way.  “Alright, Hale,” he says and Stiles turns just in time to watch them shake hands.  “Where do you suggest we go?”

“I know a place.”

_-_-_-_

 

The place ends up being a farm upstate that’s absolutely bursting with people. 

As they approach, breaking through the tree line to find a couple of kids rolling around in the front yard, playfully nipping at each other’s fingers, Stiles looks at Hale quizzically.  “I thought you wanted to live in the woods by yourself?” he asks.

“Helping you is better,” Hale says decisively, then he swallows hard.  “Besides, I’ve been hiding long enough.  I need to come home.”

Stiles blinks in surprise.  “You mean—?”

“My sisters,” Hale says simply and then he’s racing toward the house, letting out a short howl that has the kids pausing in their game and falling silent.  That is, until they see who’s approaching.

“Derek’s back!” they cry, leaping to their feet in excitement.  “Mama!  Aunt Cora!  Derek’s here!”

In the seconds it takes for the two women to bust through the front door, the kids have already started climbing Hale like a jungle gym.  The little girl is even sitting on his head.  He’s unbothered, somehow managing to scoop both sisters up in a hug and juggle his niece and nephews at the same time.  He’s so happy his lips are trembling.

It’s a lovely reunion until one of the boys wrinkles his nose and jumps off Hale’s back to stand before Stiles.  “You smell bad,” he says, tone accusatory.  “You’re not a wolf.”

The yard goes silent and Stiles shrinks away, feeling self-conscious and a little bit like he might be in danger.  Just because Hale was quick to accept him, it doesn’t mean his sisters will be.  The younger one – Aunt Cora, presumably – steps in front of the kids, claws growing on her fingers. 

Stiles can understand her concern, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.  It’s obvious she’d do anything to protect her family.

But Stiles has a family, too, and they’re at his sides in a second. 

“He’s part of my pack,” Scott says firmly, tone inviting no argument.  “We take care of him and he takes care of us.”

The young boy tilts his head to the side, studying them intently like he’s trying to wrap his mind around it.  “That’s strange,” he finally says.

It makes Scott grin.  “Probably.”

“ _Definitely_ ,” Malia corrects him with a laugh and Cora stands down.  Stiles sighs in relief, blushing when Cora smirks at him.  Damned werewolf hearing.

They find out that Hale’s older sister is named Laura and she’s an alpha.  The fact that Hale trusts them seems to be enough to satisfy her, though she keeps a wary eye on Scott as she shows them around, able to tell without asking that she’s no longer the only alpha in the room.  The farmhouse is packed to the rafters with people of all ages and varying supernatural classifications, talking and working together like one giant pack.

Stiles is the only human in the house.

Laura pushes open a door at the end of the hall.  “I only have one open room,” she says apologetically.  “It’s small but you’re welcome to it for as long as you like.  I’ll try to scrounge up some blankets so we can make up another bed or two.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Malia says, brazen as all hell, and Laura bites back a smile.

“I kind of figured that,” she says, but not like she’s judging.  More like she understands.  The world is cruel and people are crueler – sometimes you have to cling to the ones who aren’t.

She waves away their thanks and their offer of money, but nothing can erase the look of concern from Scott’s face.  “There are people following us,” he whispers, the words heavy with guilt.  “There are _dogs_ following us.  They’re gonna find us eventually…I don’t want to be the reason your family gets hurt.”  He swipes a hand down his face, exhausted.  “I don’t want them to take your pack.”

Laura just grins, letting her eyes bleed red. 

“I’d like to see them try.”

_Epilogue_

It’s almost unheard of for two alphas to share space, but that’s not why Scott wants to leave.  He’s not one for hierarchy or displays of power and it soon becomes obvious that Laura isn’t either.  In fact, they make quite the team, working side by side to protect their respective families as best they can.  After a while, pack lines start to shift until they’re so interwoven it’s hard to tell which is which.

But no matter how seamlessly they fit into life at the farmhouse, Stiles’ loyalty will always lie with Scott.  So when Scott finds him at the well some weeks later and announces, “We’re going back,” Stiles drops the bucket immediately.

“To the city?” he asks, just to be sure.  “Why?”

Scott’s eyes are sad.  “We just left them, Stiles.  There’s an entire city full of wolves and coyotes and whoever else and we just _left_ them.”

And Stiles can’t do it, can’t watch his best friend shake apart before his very eyes, so he grabs Scott by the back of the neck and hauls him into a bone-crushing hug.  “They wanted to kill you,” he reminds him, whispering into his shoulder.  “We left because we had to.”  Then he adds, the words familiar and tasting like blood, “You’re not wrong to be alive.”

“I know that,” Scott says and this time Stiles believes him.  Scott’s not the same person he was before.  “But I also know we could do it.  We could save them.”  He pulls back, fiery determination written across his face.  “We’re not letting anyone else die.”

The stubborn set of his jaw reminds Stiles so much of Melissa, unwavering and full of righteous fervor, that he has to choke down the lump that rises in his throat.  “Alright,” he says decisively, giving Scott a slap on the shoulder.  “What’s the plan, then, boss?”

The smile that spreads across Scott’s face is almost blinding.  “We gather who we can and bring them back here,” he says matter-of-factly like it’s the easiest thing in the world.  Like they won’t have to fight tooth and claw just to get them out of the city limits.  “And if anyone’s in jail, we bust them out.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, simple as that.  It’s a nearly impossible task, but if anyone can do it, it’s Scott.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

But two days later, crouching in the tall grass between Scott and Malia as a train approaches from the north, Stiles’ heart is racing so hard his chest hurts.  “It’s coming really fast,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.

Malia ruffles the back of his hair.  Normally, it’d have his eyes falling closed in contentment, but right now he’s just too nervous.  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” she tells him.  “You can stay back and help Derek build the new addition to the house.”

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps, biting off a piece of his nail and spitting it out into the grass.  The train whistles into the stillness of the afternoon.  “You take care of me and I take care of you, right?”  He means it with every fiber of his being, but he still can’t help but swallow hard.  “Just—what if the police come after us?  What if the _Argents_ come after us?”

Scott’s grin is positively wicked.  “Then they’ll have to catch us.”

Stiles snorts a laugh despite himself.  “I forget who I’m talking to,” he teases, straightening up as the train rounds the bend.  “You _never_ lose.”

  “McCall, 43-0!” Malia shouts, breaking out of their hiding spot and leaping into an empty boxcar in one fluid motion.  Then she’s hanging out the door with her arm outstretched, open palm begging them to trust her.

Stiles lets himself be hauled inside, his anxiety melting away.  He’s with his family and there are no better odds than that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> The tumblr post for this work is [here](http://arolou.tumblr.com/post/175092720228/say-a-prayer-for-the-broken-bones-pairing) so if you'd consider giving it a reblog, that'd be great :)


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